A Mask for Master
by BrilliantLady
Summary: Young Anakin reflects on the nature of slavery and freedom, and the slim difference between the two. Tatooine slave culture, Young!Anakin, dubious Jedi ethics. Complete.


A/N: Merry Christmas, a peaceful Hanukkah, happy holidays, and a joyous Yule to all my readers!

It's not my usual fandom to write in, but I hope you will enjoy my divergence into writing a Star Wars fic. Esama's Star Wars fics have recently nurtured in me a growing liking for the Star Wars prequels - something that George Lucas never managed to elicit.

Thanks to Bluestem for being my beta for fandom details - your help is appreciated! Any lingering mistakes are all my own, and readers are welcome as always to point out errors I may have missed during editing.

* * *

Master. It was a word Anakin thought he'd escaped, when Qui-Gon freed him. He was told he was no longer a slave – he would join the Order and become a Jedi, a student.

But he still had a Master. He'd had two, in fact. He'd been passed down from one to the other like an inherited belonging.

He'd thought at first that he was done with wearing a mask, a skill learnt early at his mother's knee. Look happy when one of the Masters is looking. Act busy, wear a content smile. An unhappy slave is a rebellious slave, and a rebellious slave is punished. If they want to reward you, act pleased, no matter how paltry the offering. Hide yourself within.

They sit in one of the courtyards of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant drinking tea, and Anakin smiles for his new Master. Master Kenobi smiles back, and it reminds Anakin of the self-satisfied oblivious smile of a tourist he'd once seen on Tatooine who'd tossed a beggar a Waipuipi. So proud she'd done someone a great favour – it didn't matter to her that it wouldn't even buy a quarter of a day's water ration. A man could die from such "generosity". The beggar thanked her, of course.

-000-

He'd offered the visiting strangers to Tatooine so much. In hope. He offered protection (for the most foolish member of their group), food (rare fresh fruit – a delicacy for one such as him to purchase, bought with carefully hoarded coins), and shelter (bringing them to his mother's home in the face of a sandstorm). Amongst the other slaves, such grand efforts would most likely earn you a friend for life. On top of that he'd promised to help them get the T-14 hyperdrive generator parts they needed with his pod racing prize money. Slaves almost never acted with such reckless generosity – but he didn't _want_ to act like a slave, but like a freeman would. His mother praised him, and he was content.

Qui-Gon had lost more than half the prize money before the race even started. Bargained it away to Watto. Promised him – his _Master_ – the entirety of Anakin's winnings in a recklessly poor deal, in exchange for the parts he needed to fix his ship. As if Anakin himself deserved nothing for risking his pod and his life – his generosity accepted and abused.

He was used to that. It was how his life had always been – a slave's earnings almost always went to their Master. He'd breathed out his anger with a sigh, and smiled. He hadn't wanted the money, anyway. It was always just a means to an end. He wanted something better – freedom. A Jedi with a working ship that could flee Tatooine could save him, save his mother. Maybe even more people.

He raced for a dream. The dream he'd had of freedom for Tatooine's slaves, that had felt so real, a vision that lingered brightly even after he'd awoken. A potential future floating ahead of him, if only he knew how to grasp it. He was trying… this felt like the right path. The Jedi and the angel knew slavery was illegal. They knew now that he and his mother were slaves – that slavery was common on Tatooine. Qui-Gon was a _Jedi_. They fought for everything good! But… he was doing nothing to help so far. Maybe the ship needed to be repaired first – the Hutts were powerful, and their wrath greatly feared. They'd all need an escape.

Qui-Gon sold Anakin's pod racer. He barely even asked – he just did it, but handed the money to Anakin with a smile. He was still a poor bargainer, but at least he got some credits this time. Anakin took the Jedi's sale of his pod racer as a good sign – he wouldn't need his pod to win more races and earn more money to buy his and his mother's freedom if they were leaving Tatooine.

His mother told him – after the race – what Qui-Gon had said: "I didn't actually come here to free slaves." It echoed in his mind over and over, and he breathed out his sadness. She told him to still be ready to seize any chance that was offered, though. He didn't need the warning - he'd been ready to leave her side for years. Children weren't often permitted to stay with their parents long, on Tatooine. He'd made himself useful. Too useful for Watto to want to sell, but that edge of protection wouldn't last forever.

Maybe he shouldn't have interpreted his dream so liberally to refer to Qui-Gon. Anakin had dreamt _he_ was the Jedi. He'd led an army of Jedi to come back to free the slaves of Tatooine. Friends at his sides with laser swords all the colours of the rainbow, and an army of soldiers at their backs, marching in perfect unison. It hadn't been just a single stranger – it had been foolish to think one man could make a difference, and free everyone. Anakin silently vowed to find determined allies who valued freedom, and change.

He didn't want to think his dream was false – it had felt so real. He'd become the Jedi of his dreams – the most powerful Jedi ever. Brave and noble, and the best fighter in the galaxy. And then he'd come back, with an army following him to challenge the might of the Hutts! If the Republic didn't care, and the Jedi were indifferent, he'd do it himself.

-000-

The regret had started the minute he'd realised his mother wasn't coming with them. In silent enquiry he tilted his head and circled an index finger in a miniscule hidden movement with his arm at his side. She nodded ever so slightly and flicked her fingers downwards with a minute twitch. Tiny gestures slaves used in front of their Masters – a silent and secret language of Tatooine. _Must I go? Yes, don't fight._ _It will be alright._ There were words, too. But they were mostly just noise. Bright chatter to hide a breaking heart. Never let them see your pain.

Qui-Gon felt calm and disinterested beneath his mask of sympathy - only his angel seemed to feel the sadness of the moment. Qui-Gon seemed a stranger again. Not a generous soul, but an avaricious one. He couldn't feel it like he could sometimes guess people's feelings – but he could see it, guess it from clues in his face. He didn't care about Shmi. Qui-Gon had the contented look of a slave trader who'd come away from the Market with a bargain – some shivering soul undervalued and under-priced by their former owner. He didn't want to free Anakin because he was a kind man, he wanted to free him because Anakin was _valuable_.

He broke, after glimpsing that smugly contented smile. He ran back to his mother and cried that he couldn't do it. She held him and told him he must – that they would see each other again.

He promised his mother he would return. He'd free her too. One day. He whispered into her neck that he would become such a powerful Jedi warrior no slaver would dare stand against him, and she smiled.

-000-

They tell him he is free now. A Padawan Jedi is no slave.

But he still has a Master. Yes, Master. No, Master. I follow your will, Master, and learn how to think how you want me to think. _My thoughts are my own you can own everything else but not that, never that_.

His clothes are few, and plain, and the price – like always – is gratitude. He is exhorted to not hoard possessions – the Jedi live simply, they earn no wages, and the Temple pays for their expenses when travelling. With no wage, how is he to save money to send to his mother? He asked a couple of people at the Temple. His teacher patted him on the head and with kindly condescension told him his mother would be fine, and to study hard to make her proud. Two Jedi Knights frowned at him and rebuked him for having attachments, and instructed that he should release his emotions into the Force. Here they take Force-gifted children from their families as _babies_ , to stop attachments forming. They don't even wait a year or two for them to finish suckling. He wonders if they buy them, or if they use the Force to convince the mothers and fathers to give up their children with delighted smiles. He doesn't ask which it is – he just nods and smiles and doesn't call them slavers no matter how much the hated word burns within him. That night he lies on his mattress on the floor in the starkly bare white room that is his home now, and is too angry to breathe it out.

He travels only when his newest Master takes him somewhere, and is otherwise restricted to the Temple grounds. They haven't taken the transmitter and the explosive out of his flesh yet. He hopes they've just forgotten, and that it's not on purpose because of the whispers that he's too old to be trained as a Jedi – too dangerous, like a guard Massiff on a flimsy leash everyone is terrified will slip from a Tusken Raider's control. But how could you forget that someone could die at any moment if the right frequency is sent? He fears to ask – he doesn't want to know the answer. He still wants to believe the Jedi are kind… and dreads they are not.

He wonders where the boundaries are, and who holds the trigger now. He keeps his mask on.


End file.
